


Fake It

by Lothiriel84



Series: These words are all we have (We'll be talking) [6]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Aromantic, Background Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Ice Cream, MJN Air Is A Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24668188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: Show me joy, flower through disarrayLet's destroy, each mistake that we made
Relationships: Carolyn Knapp-Shappey & Douglas Richardson, Carolyn Knapp-Shappey/Herc Shipwright
Series: These words are all we have (We'll be talking) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546090
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	Fake It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timeladyleo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeladyleo/gifts).



“Far be it from me to question your motivations, Carolyn, but I fear the waiters are starting to suspect the menu has somehow managed to personally offend you.”

She turns her patented death glare on him, but it’s more out of habit than anything else. “Whoever translated the ice cream list into this weird approximation of the English language, frankly deserves a taste of Arthur’s cuisine.”

“Shall I order for you? You won’t regret it, I promise,” Douglas offers, without any apparent second motive. He’s in a good mood today – she suspects it’s got something to do with how he got to show off with a perfectly executed landing in Pisa, and in front of Arthur’s live-in partner on top of that. (Arthur explained to her that Tiffy isn’t quite comfortable with being referred to as his ‘girlfriend’, and she’s been trying to avoid using the term since, even in the privacy of her own mind.)

“Fine,” she shrugs, irritably, and shuts the menu. She barely pays any heed to Douglas rattling off the order in what sounds like fairly good Italian – at least to her own, unmistakably British, ear – starts fiddling with her phone instead.

“I’m sure even Arthur can’t manage the feat of accidentally tipping the Leaning Tower over, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“Douglas,” she starts, pinching the bridge of her nose for good measure. “If I wanted to put up with a man’s idea of a witty conversation, I’d be out there sightseeing with Herc.”

“Trouble in paradise, I surmise?” Douglas ventures to enquire, almost genuinely sympathetic for a change.

“It’s none of your business,” she retorts, quickly. Douglas doesn’t seem to mind her abruptness, though – just flashes a charming smile at the young waitress bringing their ice cream sundaes, and signals for the taller one to be placed in front of Carolyn.

“Almond and pistachio gelato,” Douglas gestures with his spoon. “My favourite.”

Carolyn takes a cautious sniff, stares suspiciously at her glass cup. “Douglas, if you ordered some god-awful flavour on purpose, I swear,” she starts, only to trail off as she tastes the first spoonful. “What on earth is this?”

“Limoncello gelato. I’m told it tastes amazing.”

She takes another spoonful, and while her first instinct is to be contrary just for the sake of it, in the end she simply can’t summon the energy for it. “It does, rather, actually.”

“You’re welcome,” Douglas smirks, tucking into his gelato with gusto.

They finish their ice cream in silence, and in an uncharacteristic bout of generosity, Douglas even offers to pay. She lets him, if only to be afforded the satisfaction of bringing it up later, and they find their way towards a bench sitting in the shade of yet another of those sickly smelling linden trees.

“I don’t need a man’s pity,” she declares at length, against her better judgement, somehow tricked into it by Douglas's continued – and frankly unnerving – silence. “Especially not Herc’s.”

“Again, far be it from me to offer matrimonial advice,” he sighs. “But if that’s of any consolation, I don’t believe you have it.”

“How would you know,” she bites back, somewhat bitterly, only to feel vaguely guilty about it immediately after. None of this is Douglas’s fault – nor Herc’s, for that matter, if she has to be completely honest with herself. Herc’s been nothing but utterly supporting of her, which is what unnerves her the most, no matter how irrational that sounds.

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, Carolyn, but the walls of the Portakabin are hardly soundproof.”

Of course. She’d been too bloody furious to care, and the worst part was that deep down, she _knew_ Herc was right – it was just a lot to wrap her head around, even more so after spending sixty-three odd years wondering whether there was something fundamentally wrong with the way she was.

“I’m not an idiot, Douglas,” she points out, matter-of-factly. “I am well aware of the many, varied romantic and sexual orientations available to humankind, as Arthur was so kind as to teach me at some length after that blasted course in Ipswich. And while I do appreciate that Arthur, in his infinite optimism, must have meant that ridiculous pin badge as a well-intended gift, I can’t see why I should publicly advertise such a private matter, let alone be – _proud_ – of it.”

She almost spits out the word, as if physically lodged somewhere in her throat. For all that she values Herc’s intelligence enough to trust he’s not somehow deluding himself about the true nature of their relationship and the foundations of their marriage, she can still feel the doubt raising its ugly head way more often than she should like.

“I never thought I would have to come out and say this, and I would appreciate if you kindly refrained from mentioning it in front of the man himself, but – well, Herc is no idiot, either. He knew precisely what he was signing up for when he proposed to you, and yet he did it all the same.”

“Good Lord,” she blinks, though it’s mostly for show. She simply can’t afford to pass an opportunity to redress the balance in their – friendship, she supposes, even though she would never call it that to Douglas’s face. “Are you actually agreeing with Herc?”

“I know, I know. The world must be about to end, and all that,” he shrugs, flicking a stray leaf from the sleeve of his uniform. “What I fear our brave First Officer failed to convey is the fact that, while you’re in no way required to wear your son’s gift, it would make a world of a difference not just to him, but to young Tiffany as well.”

Carolyn stares in the distance, considering the truth to Douglas’s words. She has spent virtually all her life completely unaware there was even a word to describe her own experience, and she might have never heard of it, had it not been for Arthur and his partner. Having recently had the displeasure of meeting Tiffy’s mother, she daren’t imagine how hard the girl had to fight to have her own identity acknowledged, never mind accepted; she thinks of her sister Ruth and her scathing comments about Carolyn’s perceived failings, and suddenly decides that, forget pride – spite is a powerful enough motivator, at least as far as she is concerned.

“Right,” she clears her throat. “Aromantic pride flag it is, then. At least I brought my green scarf with me this morning.”

“That’s the spirit,” Douglas grins, and makes to get up. “Shall we reconvene with the rest of the crew?”

She rummages into her bag, takes a deep breath, and pins the badge to the front of her shirt. “If any of the passengers dare to comment on this,” she starts, her chin raised in defiance.

“Should you need any help with disposing the bodies,” he throws at her over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

With that, they fall into step with one another, heading back towards where the main tourist attractions are. It’s not their first time in Pisa, not by any stretch of imagination, yet she can easily picture Arthur having the time of his life while some befuddled stranger takes that same old photograph of him ‘holding up’ the Leaning Tower with his hands. Or perhaps Tiffy managed to talk some sense into him, where everyone else has failed this far.

“Oh, and Douglas?” she breaks the silence, eventually, even as they spot Herc’s distinctive figure flitting in and out of the crowd a mere couple of yards ahead of them. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

They both know that’s not all she means, and she’s secretly relieved when Douglas has the decency not to directly address it. “Any time,” he nods, and waves to get Herc’s attention.


End file.
